Funny how a Few Words Turned into Sex
by Green2
Summary: *COMPLETE* 'If hating yourself wears off in time, it's a very very long time' Draco has a decision to make *SLASH* R/D (with link to new fanart!)
1. Words

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Funny how a Few Words Turned into Sex

By Green

Rating: Will rise to R

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Pairing: Ron/Draco

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Series/Sequel: Part One

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Warnings: Slash…yadda…m/m..yadda…homosexual…yadda…Gryffindor doesn't win absolutely everything all the time

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Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns it all and we bow to her greatness, if she'd only got the fifth book out a little quicker I wouldn't have gotten addicted to Ron/Draco slash in the interim. Suing me would hold little point, as I have no money at all.

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Feedback: Please, please, please

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Notes: So, you say, why don't they stop the rain with magic? Well, I could say that disrupting the balance of nature is never a good thing, or that it was a learning experience thing. Or I could just say that I wanted to write it and let you make up your own excuse…

Please r/r - more along soon in any case

~~***~~

The Quidditch pitch is emptying, quickly, in the rain that has cancelled the second half of the match.

Dispirited, the players and audience retire to the main buildings, to fight another day. The colours of Gryffindor and Slytherin are rolled down, neither triumphant. The ground is swiftly subliming to mud, the sky to mist. The snitch may return and be caught by the enchanted box, or it may be lost forever. 

In the field Draco Malfoy raises the back of his hand to his forehead to wipe off the raindrops from the flushed skin. He turns around to survey the scene. An ignominious end to such an anticipated match. He'll get Potter next time, of course, but it will mean extending the practice schedule into time he wanted to spend revising for the NEWTS. Though Heaven help the teacher that would fail a Malfoy.

He turns around, preparing to walk off, and is horrified when Ron 'Weasel' Weasely emerges from the crowd, smiling, running, holding out his arms. What? Why? A confusion of jumbled reactions, a race of adrenaline. He braces himself to be hit, but the contact does not come. Weasely passes him without a glance and reaches Potter, who Malfoy had not realised was only feet behind him.

It happens too quickly to process. If he stops dwelling on it he will forget it. Who wants to think of Potter and Weasely anyway?

For the rest of the week people remark that Draco seems particularly depressed by the match cancellation.

~~***~~

A week and a half later, and the replay decides a win to Slytherin, although they and Gryffindor may still be the finalists based on points - the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws are tied at present. 

Today the sun is shining with almost no magical assistance, and the house colours seem to almost glow in the light. Draco Malfoy is exultant, not only have Slytherin beaten Gryffindor, but he's beaten Potter and Weasely by spoiling the surprise party they were so excitedly planning at the last match. He would love to have seen Granger's face when the 'cake' exploded and covered her in Pimple Producer. 

Life is sweet.

Another face catches him, someone in the crowd as he swoops in triumph around the pitch with his team. He slows to look closer. Weasely's glare meets his eye, solid and cold and bitter. Weasely waves his wand. A message writes itself in the air just before Draco's face.

__

Just because you hate me, you don't have to get at them.

And the expression isn't cold; it's hurt, hurt for her, his little mudblood.

__

Just because you hate me, you don't have to get at them.

Wha..?

The injuries from colliding with a goalpost are never severe, but he spends the night in the Infirmary, and afterwards they all agree he is 'not quite himself'.

~~***~~

Just because you hate me, you don't have to get at them.

Now what the hell does that mean? I don't hate Weasely, which is to say that, yes, I do, but I don't hate * Weasely * - it's the whole stinking crew of them that I resent. If it's one in particular it's Potter, the Boy Famous for Nothing at All. Or maybe Granger, the mudblood. Not boring old Weasely, poor and rude and nothing much else.

And if Weasely thinks any different it's just egotism.

Bloody Weasely.

Damn it!

But after all, Weasely is the one responsible for my injuries, Weasely, the jumped-up little prat. I see him sometimes, in the Great Hall, sitting next to the Great Potter, and he acts like everyone they're talking to is interested in him, not just his famous friend. Who would notice Ron Weasely next to Harry Potter? Potter's scar pretty much pips the post for originality, but even without it there's the dark wavy hair, pale skin, green eyes - unusual to say the least. And even if the glasses are beyond retro, beyond ironic and just plain godawful, he has that little-boy-lost look down pat. 

Weasely? He's yet another redheaded, freckle-faced product of the family that makes the name of wizardry embarrassing. Nothing to look at. 

But then…he looks at me. Angry looks, bitter looks. Sometimes he just stares across all the tables at me, intensely, as though he's trying to read my thoughts. And that's when it strikes me that he's being protective. He's trying to judge me, to find out what I'm planning before I do it and protect Potter and Granger.

That could be used so easily to taunt him, but if I did that, then I'd have to admit that *I * look back. 

Ron Weasely may not be noticeable, but he can * make * you notice him.

All through breakfast today the writing seemed to hover above my plate, but when I looked up he was talking and laughing and sharing an apple with Potter. 

__

Just because you hate me, you don't have to get at them.

I am going to get Weasely for that, for my injuries, for staring, for…

No, why should I care if he ignores me?

Just watch out, Weasely.


	2. Deeds

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Funny how a Few Words Turned into Sex

By Green

Rating: R

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Pairing: Ron/Draco

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Series/Sequel: Part Two

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Warnings: Slash…yadda…m/m...yadda…homosexual…yadda…Gryffindor doesn't win absolutely everything all the time

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Disclaimer: I do not own anything connected to the Harry Potter franchise in any way shape or form, not * yet * anyway

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Feedback: Please, please, please

Notes: Part two! Thanks to those who reviewed Part One, I hope this is as good. Sorry, quite a lot of plot in this chunk, but it had to go somewhere.

Please r/r 

~~***~~

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Chapter 2: Deeds:

'Just watch out, Weasely, I'm going to get you good'

I pondered long and hard over how best to get revenge on Weasely. It had to be something clever, something sophisticated - something he would know came from me but that I could not be held accountable for.

Ah, the restricted section of the library, so handy for 'Research Projects' - Snape would sign any permission slip I gave him if he thought I was plotting against Potter, and I lie extraordinarily well. I sat down with a copy of _Vengeance for the Vitriolic_ and noted down some options. Inflammations, pains, embarrassing noises - no! I needed something…original.

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'**Ignorbis or Coventrium: **A spell that makes the object of your dislike completely unnoticeable for up to a week. Watch as even their closest friends refuse to acknowledge them and their self-esteem shrivels to nothing. Guaranteed to destroy relationships without the smallest hint of your intervention…'

Perfect.

I copied down the beginning of the spell, then the ingredients, hurrying as I heard footsteps approaching, I just managed to shove the book back in the shelf and stand up when the group of third years came into view. I then made my way to the Slytherin common room to memorise the charm. Our next Potions lesson would be most…interesting…

~~***~~

That lesson.

That bloody lesson.

I was such a fucking * idiot *

We filed in, as usual. Took our places, as usual. Opened our books, got out the equipment and ingredients. Professor Snape informed us that we would be making Warblejuice, which would supposedly enable the drinker to sing like a nightingale. I was over the moon of course because it had to be ingested, and I had thought I would have to wait ages for that kind of potion. They could never prove that Weasely hadn't simply added the wrong ingredients, it's not like most people get potions right anyway.

Whilst everyone busied themselves with their brews I got out the pre-prepared Ignorbis from my robes and waited for my chance. Weasely and Potter were bending earnestly over their cauldron, chatting and enjoying themselves as they worked. 

I could see the skin of Weasely's elbow through his tatty old jumper. Other people - Harry Potter, me - moved on when their clothes got messed, bought new ones, continued to blend in exactly the same way that everyone else did. All Weasely's things were definitely his; they bore all the marks of the things he did. 

Pauper.

I waited a few minutes longer, then sidled over to them 

'I'm taking some of your wormswort. We didn't get enough'

'What do you mean, we?' Potter retorted, 'I notice Pansy has been doing all the actual work as usual'

'Well you obviously haven't paid that much attention either if you're noticing what goes on across the room'

I reached across to pick up the wormswort, and managed to get every bit of the Ignorbis into the cauldron unnoticed. I was banking on Weasely tasting it, because I knew that the protective streak in him wouldn't let Potter risk it, even if the motive was only subconscious.

He had been silent throughout, but now he looked up and sighed

'You've got what you wanted, now go away Malfoy, the air smells bad enough here already'

But he didn't mean it; he was saying it because he had to, because it sounded right. He didn't care what I thought of him or what remarks were traded, he just wanted me as far away as possible. He didn't care, the little shit. All I was doing, all the effort, he didn't care. Maybe he'd figured I got off on * reaction * on emotion, maybe he thought I wanted that anger more than I actually wanted to hurt, I wanted…

…I wanted to shove that potion down his throat there and then and nastier ones besides.

Seething internally, I returned to my bench.

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Just because you hate me, you don't have to get at them

'Well prepare to celebrate, Weasely, I'm not getting at * them * at all' I muttered

Professor Snape stood up.

'Now, each pair nominate a taster, be quick and do not waste time. Hands up tasters… The other student will now pour out a cupful of the Warblejuice. Carefully! Now give it to the taster…'

I was frozen, watching. As I had predicted, Weasely was tasting.

He lifted the cup, hands pale against the pewter.

He drank.

His throat pulsed gently as he swallowed.

Slowly, hands falling, arms dropping, legs crumpling, the rich, fiery head hitting the desk as he fell. Collapsed. All so slow, as if through oil, that moment.

That moment I knew I had gone horribly wrong when I copied down the words so quickly.

The crash of the dropped cup.

People running. Me frozen. Potter shouting and Granger on the verge of tears. 

Ron Weasely all folded on the floor and his blank eyes staring straight at me, right at me and that voice…

'He isn't breathing'

Again and again in my ears

* 'He isn't breathing' *

~~***~~

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The rain has returned, but no one has noticed. The common rooms are subdued, the Great Hall silent. The rain beats and beats so harshly but even if they were out in it they wouldn't care.

The light from the Infirmary barely penetrates the gloom. The light from the room where Ron Weasely lies, alive but as weak as the faint glimmer from the guttering candle. The rain will be there tomorrow, but he may not.

His friends sit huddled, waiting, watching. Their faces are dry, for now they have cried all they can.

It seems almost poetic, although only one person appreciates it. The potion has meant that everyone today notices Ron Weasely, but Ron Weasely is unconscious, and may never notice anything again.

But outside the window the boy waiting in the shadows of the corner on a broomstick - a Nimbus Two Thousand and One in point of fact - has water all over his face anyway, so who knows? He is cold and tired and tense, but he was like that before the rain began. 

Draco Malfoy is scared. But even he realises that it isn't for his own hide. 

The knuckles on the broom handle are white, his jaw aches from clenching - if only it would distract him from the real pain. He whispers words, words that have long since ceased to have meaning, words he had forgotten he knew.

'Please, please, please, please, please, please…'

~~***~~


	3. Thoughts

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Chapter Three: Thoughts

Warnings: See earlier - SLASH, some language

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Notes: Thank-you to all reviewers, particularly those who came back and reviewed again. Some have commented on the title (in anticipation, I note, just be patient guys * g *) It is a line from a Justin Timberlake song - No, I don't particularly like him or the song but I did like that line and I thought it fitted well.

Would Draco have noticed Ron if the potion had gone right? I think he himself was in such a rush he didn't even think about that, but I think to be truly effective form of revenge, yes, the perpetrator would be aware of it. 

I apologise for spellings of Teachers' names - all my books are currently on loan to a friend

I am having the * most * fun writing this - I hope y'all enjoy it too…

~~***~~

Calm.

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Shit what was it was it the hemlock I thought it said a spoonful maybe it didn't maybe that was another spell altogether how could this happen to me how could this happen it wasn't supposed to happen it's an accident I never meant it to happen it happened so quickly…

Unmoved.

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I can't see he's so still but they're blocking the view and she's crying too why doesn't Trelawny arrive why is it so cold here is he cold is he really cold why does Snape look so scared why is everyone so quiet what is the bloody * delay * getting him help why won't my feet move I can't seem to breathe any more…

Uncaring.

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He's so still so very still the eyes are staring but they're blank can they see me can he see me from somewhere else has he gone no he hasn't he's still here because no one's taken him to the Infirmary yet why don't they move he's so pale he swallowed all of it why did I put in so much dear God they have to help him the delay may kill him…

No, that was my job…

There is a pain in the bridge of my nose, and behind my eyes, but I'm not giving in…

Calm, unmoved, uncaring. As a Malfoy should be, as my Father is, through everything. Even unto death.

They are beginning to look at me now, in contempt, as I stand aloof. I do not care - the only look I watched for is hidden behind sightless eyes. 

I must be still outside; or else this inside would surely explode…

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No Please No Please Please No not him Please * Ron * No Please Please No…

~~***~~

He is in the Infirmary.

He isn't dead.

It is all over.

But the feelings are still here.

I feel ice cold, shaking, nervous, sweaty, tense, pains in my stomach, unable to sit still, obsessive, angry, fearful…

I finally realise I am feeling guilty. It is an odd sensation.

I wanted to see his look when he turned in anger and knew I had got one over him.

I wanted to make the flush rise in his cheeks as it always does.

I wanted those eyes to glare back at me again, to watch me and worry, and never stop thinking of me.

// Blank eyes staring right at me. Blank, sightless eyes//

I wanted to hurt Ron Weasely; I wanted to make him suffer in no small terms. I did * not * want to kill him. I think I've never truly considered what I meant when I talked about the Dark rising and taking over. I meant death, I meant what we all thought had happened to Ron Weasely in those awful minutes before he reached the Infirmary.

Those are minutes I never want to relive, but I can't help it. It was so cold and hard and final, like a wall. 'Stop now, no more, there is nothing more'

I was a fool last night, sitting all that time in the rain, what if they'd seen me? I'm under suspicion as it is. But I * had * to see, see what I'd done. 

See him. Check he was alive.

Besides, I had a lot to think about. My Father sometimes told me stories of people he'd killed, people he wanted to kill. He said it was fun, glorious and beautiful, I believed him. I honestly thought one day I would kill many people - probably Potter and Weasely among them.

Now all I know for certain is that I never want to see my Father again.

I sat in the fucking downpour with my existentialist problems and not even a raincoat, and the entire episode has solved sod all. Either: he will wake up and have no idea who did this to him and I'll have to think of some other way of making him realise he pissed me off…

(Not really something I feel like doing)

…Or he'll guess, and then he'll think that I…He'll truly believe I…That I wanted…

He must * never * think that

Why? Hell, I don't know, there are too many fucking questions…

~~***~~

'I asked you a question, Mr Malfoy'

God, McGonagall's ugly up close

'Mr Malfoy' 

And somehow, I don't like to make fun of Dumbledore, even in my head, I think he would know. 

'Mr Malfoy, are these allegations true?'

Potter glares at me from Dumbledore's side, as does Granger, McGonagall and bloody Dean Thomas, whose reawakened memories of the Potions lesson and my actions in it (he was in the row behind Potter and Weasely) have brought me to this tribunal.

What can I do? Lie, of course, and that's tempting, but then Dumbledore plays his ace…

'Mr Weasely has come out of a coma after three days, he will not be able to leave his bed for at least a month, we are all fortunate that he has not been rendered deaf or worse. I understand his Mother hasn't slept in almost 72 hours'

Not the Nanny, or the Au pair, or the hired nurse, no - Weasely has his mother

Pauper.

Lucky beggar.

'Now, do you have anything to say, Mr Malfoy?'

*Don't * confess, * Don't * confess….

__

'Fortunate he has not been rendered deaf or worse'

Just because you hate me…

Just because you hate me…

But I * don't * hate you…

'It..It was an accident'

And for some unknown reason, I explain it all. Not _why_ of course, but they all assume some vague addition to the feuding of the Slytherins and Gryffindors, so I escape those questions. Luckily, Dumbledore at least believes that the potion went wrong, and that I was not actually intending to cause grievous harm. But he looks at me with grave eyes, and I know I'm in trouble. 

And for the first time in my life I feel I deserve it.

~~***~~

I got off lightly really.

'In view of your exemplary record at this school we have decided not to suspend you this time. But should you ever be found guilty of intentionally harming another student again, whether or not you intended it to be a prank, you will be almost certainly expelled.'

Almost certainly, my Father would fight tooth and nail to stop it. I'm so relieved that I'm not going, that I don't have to go back home - I can never fit in there again.

'You are to be punished, however, to the best of our ability…'

And so on, no leaving the school, no taking books from the library, no permission to access the restricted section, curfew imposed, detention for the rest of the term etc

'And one other thing…'

Huh?

'You will visit Mr Weasely in the Infirmary at least every other day until he is well. It is simply not acceptable for this kinds of feud to exist in our school. You will visit him and the two of you will learn to tolerate being in the same room like mature adults'

I stare at Dumbledore in astonishment. This is unheard of! I can't do that; I can't see Weasely, not now, not ever. He will know it was me, he'll know I screwed up or he'll think I wanted him dead…

I can't have him look at me and think that. I can't talk to him. I can't… But I can't argue with Dumbledore either.

'And Mr Malfoy…'

'Yes?'

'I trust that this incident will teach you how easily a spell may find the wrong person.'

'Sir?'

'Why did you think you could be sure Mr Potter would drink it? No, don't tell me about it, think it over. You may leave now.'

~~***~~

'You can't leave Harry alone can you?'

'What's wrong with Harry anyway?'

'Potter should never let you into his sight'

'Tough luck not getting Potter'

It's all of them. Every single bloody member of this school. From Crabbe to Zabini, every one of them thinks I wanted Potter to drink that potion.

I don't give an answer, they don't usually want one anyway, but inside I am so angry I can barely sit still. Those * idiots * What are they thinking? Why are they so * stupid *? 

Then it hits me - Why am I angry? 

I'm angry because they don't believe Weasely's important enough for me to want to hurt him?

Because Weasely nearly fucking * died * and all they can think about is Potter?

Weasely is twice the person that Potter will ever be, on his own actions too, not his parents. Weasely is the one who annoyed me by trying to protect his friends; Weasely is the one who could read my plans almost before I had them…

__

Just because you hate me you don't have to get at them

I don't hate him. 

I don't think I ever did.

I don't what I feel about anything any more. 

Last night I dreamt about walking over a rain-soaked Quidditch pitch, except that it's raining potions instead of water. It's grey and huge and empty and cold. Then I hear a voice and Weasely comes running at me, and I try and tell him to watch the cliff edge that suddenly appears behind me. But he ignores me and runs on - I scream at the waiting people to catch him but they are all absorbed in watching Potter on his broomstick and Weasely falls over and down and down. I reach out to grab his hand and for one second his skin is warm and soft against mine, but then he looks at me in disgust and wrenches his hand away and falls…his eyes stare back at me through the dark until he hits the ground and it all goes black.

~~***~~

In the morning I am told a scream in the night woke several Slytherins from their bunks, but it was never discovered who was responsible.

Thank god for cold reputations.

I don't feel cold now though, waiting outside Weasely's room in the Infirmary, waiting to see him for the first visit of what I fear will have to be many.

Fear / hope. Nothing's as simple as it was a week ago.

His voice inside tells the door to open, and I step in.

I was tense and the sight was so shocking.

What other explanation is there for what I said?

'Ron!'

'What are you looking at, * Malfoy *?'

Oh shit…

~~***~~

He looks so pale, and delicate somehow, lying back among the pillows on that hard little bed.

His hair seems even redder against the pale skin, and the eyes flash brighter and darker - but they have the same look, for which I am almost glad.

Too much has changed.

'Well, come in if you're coming'

His voice is resigned, and I imagine Dumbledore has talked to him as well about this. I had hoped to get through this with some dignity, but two minutes in and I've called him by his name, stood gawping in a doorway and let him get one up on me…

He sits up straighter as I perch on a chair by the bed. There are black lines under his eyes and a bruise on the side of his face still from where he hit the bench. His expression is reserved, but I wonder if he is scared.

'I didn't mean to do it, you know' There - that's as close to an apology as a Malfoy is allowed to get.

Silence.

'I didn't want to hurt you, at least, not this much'

And he looks away.

'Look, I'm…sorry, ok?'

Did I just say that?

He * still * isn't looking at me. I'm cross, I'm embarrassed. I'm really, really stupid…

'Come now, Mummikins has gone - you can use naughty words if you like'

And that makes him turn around, and seethe with anger. He lashes out his hand and I run out of the room.

Why do I do it? Why? 

All he's ever going to see in me now is a bastard. 

Hell, that's all I can see of myself.

I am * not * crying in the middle of the passageway

But it seems I am…

~~***~~

__

No one believes it when Colin Creevey says he saw Draco Malfoy running out of the Infirmary block with a red face. 

Ron will neither confirm nor deny, and Harry and Hermione are confused by how little he wants to talk about Malfoy's visit. They conclude that he is still feeling shaky from the illness.

Malfoy spends the rest of the day as usual, pointedly ignored or insulted by most, pointedly encouraged by a few. He doesn't seem to care about either. He retires early, but first he wanders down to the Quidditch pitch and stands in one corner, looking about.

The Ravenclaw team see him and they come down to practice, and chase him off, but they wonder what he was looking at in vain.

That night there are two nightmares at least in Hogwarts school. And both dreamers awake the next morning with the same awful thought:

'I'm seeing him again tomorrow'

~~***~~

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	4. Feelings

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Chapter Four: Feelings

Warnings/Notes: This chapter gets a little…intense…If that pleases you you've probably sped on already, if it squicks you go away. SLASH Ron/Draco (in case anyone missed that). They are not mine, but they're on my list to Santa, so who knows?

Thanks to all reviewers so far - it helps so much to know it's all appreciated * g *

This is a pretty long instalment, but I wanted it to run together and not be broken up. Trust me to hit the chunky part just when the Christmas frantic fest hits and I have to go off and pass people tinsel every few minutes. Due to Christmas etc there may be no more instalments until December 27th - or there may be, just to warn you…

Happy Festive Season! 

~~***~~

__

This has to stop.

After the fiasco of my last visit I feel that I never want to see Weasely again. And that in itself is nothing unusual.

What's unusual is the reason - I'm not angry with him, I'm angry with myself.

But also angry with him because I still don't like him, why should I?

But angry with myself because I was weak.

Because I lashed out in anger.

Because I got so irritated that I tried to hurt him.

But does that annoy me because Malfoys don't allow themselves to get that emotional? Or simply because of the way he was so pale against the covers and so * drained * looking and when I insulted him I could see the hurt in his eyes and he looked so disappointed, and fingers grasping the duvet but shakily and it's all my fault and…

__

Stop.

Stop that.

Now.

It doesn't matter anyway. I have to see him again today - Trelawny has to check that I go and she won't forget. 

I don't want to see him. I just want to go away and bury all this mess deep inside and never look at it again. I want to be cruel and aloof and uncaring, I always have. But it's never felt forced before.

It's never felt wrong before.

__

It doesn't matter. This has to stop.

~~***~~

__

You're an evil bastard - act like one. Be like Lucius; be like the Malfoy you truly are. Nothing can ever change; you can't lose that identity. What does Ron Weasely matter compared to your reputation?

I want to obey my logic. I know it is right. But in the face of logic there is confusion and muddle, and the memory of how he looked last time I behaved 'properly'. 

I'm * sorry * Father, but I can't do that to him again. I nearly killed him. I * can't * be that cruel - however much I wish I could….

So I say nothing when I walk in, and he makes no comment. Today he is sitting up in bed folding bandages to help out in the Infirmary, and so I sit down by the bed again and just pick one up and start folding.

Silence is very much underrated. He says nothing, I say nothing - we risk no insults. 

In the silence I can hear his steady breathing, calming, regular. 

I get good at folding quickly and no longer need to watch my bandage, and my eyes are drawn to his long, careful fingers as they twist and fold on the blankets. Each hand is covered in freckles, just like his face. I suddenly wonder if he's freckled all over - How far do the freckles go? Are they * everywhere *?

I look up and find he is staring at me, and I hope the blush I can feel doesn't show as much as I think.

It takes extraordinary willpower, but I stay quiet and go back to my folding.

So does he.

Silences can be awkward, but they can also be comfortable.

At the end of my free period I stand up to go, and place the last bandage on the pile we have constructed together.

Just as I walk out of the door he mutters 'See ya' 

So polite, must be his upbringing. The question is, can I ignore mine?

I turn around and meet his gaze. 

'Same time tomorrow' I answer

It is boring, but for us it is a miracle. I've discovered that there's no shame in simply not arguing with someone. Then no one can answer back.

And parts of today were not boring at * all *. Now, who can I ask about freckles?

~~***~~

Damn freckles. 

Everywhere I go these past few days it's all I think about. Freckles, people with freckles, freckled skin, freckled skin in particular places.

Weasely's freckles.

We've spent another three sessions in almost total silence, just working at a task. And every time it gets worse, watching his hands and thinking about…freckles.

It would feel stupid now, to start acting mean again. So there's really no good reason to, not yet. I will when he's out, when he's stronger, some other day when I can't see the bruises I've caused any more…

Today when I went he was stacking packets of herbs and tying them up in tens with string. I set to it, but halfway through the back leg of the rickety old chair finally gave out and I collapsed unceremoniously on the ground, along with twenty packets of assorted herbs.

He laughed out loud, which irritated me, but then he reached out a hand and said

'You OK?' still smiling and half-chuckling

He smiles at Potter, at Granger, at half the world given the chance. He doesn't smile at me.

__

'Nobody laughs at a Malfoy and lives'

Those were my Father's words, but laughing just made Weasely look so * alive * and his eyes are even better when they smile than when they glare.

I grasped his hand and stood up, and I couldn't resist moving my finger to see if I could feel the patterning on his hand.

'Do these tickle when they appear?' I asked, half to myself

'Of course not!' He looked bewildered 'Does your hair tickle from growing blond, I presume it does _grow_ blond?'

I glared at him, and opened my mouth…but…

…but one part of me * was * tickling, the hand that still held his, two pale skins together, so alike…

'It only grows longer, Weasely, what else would it do?'

He looks shocked for half a second. Then he laughs again, with me this time. 

I never laugh, but I hadn't realised how long it had been since I'd smiled…

~~***~~

The next fortnight rolls by, and I barely notice it. Something cold and tight and painful inside me has gone, and until it left I didn't know it was there. 

__

But it * mustn't * go, that's all I have. See the way they stare at you in lessons, the way they hate you? That's who you are - change that and you can't be better than them any more. Don't you want that? Don't you want to crush them down?

//Red-headed body, falling, collapsing, crushing under my influence//

__

Don't you like inflicting pain any more?

The feeling is probably just that I'm no longer guilty over Weasely - I mean, that I no longer need to feel I owe him. After all, he's getting up in a few days. Then he has all holiday to recuperate before the term begins and lessons start again in three weeks. He says wants to visit Hogsmeade, and drink a gallon of butterbeer to make up for all the time that he's lost.

'And then I'll visit every shop - twice! Oh…sorry Malfoy, I forgot…'

'That I'm in detention till Hell freezes over? I don't like sweets anyway'

'You really are evil aren't you? Sheesh'

__

See - no change there. So show him he's right

I get down from the bed where I'd been sitting helping him with a jigsaw. He looks up, surprised. 

'Malfoy?'

There is a dent on the bed where I sat, and I notice he moves his legs into it instinctively to warm them…

__

Go on! Show that nothing's changed

I look at him, sitting there in bed, looking shorter than me although I know he isn't. Have you ever known someone vaguely, as a kind of cardboard cutout personality, and then looked at them again and discovered they've become a person to you without you noticing how?

That when you look at their eyes they look back and you can't read them because you know the richness of the feelings behind that look?

That they deserve…something…respect maybe?

'You know that I didn't want to really hurt you, don't you?' 

I didn't know I could speak that quietly…or feel so nervous about an answer

He looks down, and speaks in a new tone, one I haven't heard before.

'You wanted to make the entire world ignore me, that would have hurt pretty bad'

'I…'

'Why do you do it? You can act…differently; I've seen it - here. So you had a choice, and you chose to try and ruin my life and that of my friends. I've been ignoring that these past few weeks because I know I have to see you and not make a fuss, but don't think anything's changed'

'But it has!' I answer

__

You fool! Don't you care about power? About your own dignity? Stop grovelling to this idiot!

He looks up again, quickly. Questioning.

I take a deep breath and ignore my inner voice with every part of me… 

'Look, after that lesson…I never want to live through that again. I don't want that to happen again ever. My spell backfired, but it could have happened to you too - don't think I don't know about the Polyjuice potion or that time you and Potter enchanted the Slytherin's robes to show the Gryffindor sign.'

No…angry isn't right. I owe him more than that

'But, I was wrong. I'm sorry. When I saw you…lying there, that night. I…I've never felt like that. It was horrible. I thought…. Well, you know what we thought.'

'You didn't see me that _night_…I was in this room and no one came in except Harry and Hermione'

'I didn't come in'

And across his face I can see the idea forming, and he almost instantly glances at the window. It's scary if someone knows you that well, scary * not * pleasant and warm whatever my skin thinks.

He turns back and we appraise each other for a moment. I can see the reservation in his eyes, and that same old look of mistrust, just like at that Quidditch match which seems like years ago now.

Whatever else happens I * don't * want to go back to that…to what that made me do….but…

__

What else is there? What else could there possibly be for you?

…but we have to. This situation can't continue. I can't live my life feeling this way. We have to get back to the petty hatred and jibes. And I know how…

'Hit me'

'Pardon?' He wasn't expecting that at any rate.

I move right up close to him and sit on the bed again. I lean forward.

'Hit me, punch me, whatever. Go on. I deserve it'

Blank. Eyes wide, and up close they are even more delicate.

'I hurt you, hurt me back, let's just keep it going. Give and take. I don't want to feel this way any more, please just even it out'

__

Pain. Anger. You know about this. This is good; this is normal and manageable.

He actually raises a hand, but slowly, and I curse whatever tenderness in him stays his hand against his worst enemy

'I can take corporal punishment, you know. No need for guilt trips, just lay into me for a bit and see if it makes you feel better, I have a good record'

I mean it to be mildly sarcastic, irritating enough to force him into it. But as we sit there, faces inches apart, breathing in the air between too rapidly, I think he reads the memories behind my words better than I imagined anyone could.

His expression softens, to something so beautiful and tender…

The hand reaches out and - ever so gently - strokes my hair.

'Oh Draco, whose screwed-up past are we acting out?'

A current of…something…seems to run through his hand and rush through my stomach, my legs and twitch where they meet in the middle…

His eyelids are dotted with tiny pale freckles, flicking over the deep, dark, kindly eyes.

His hair is gold and red and every colour of the sunset.

His mouth unlined, and full, and nearer, and nearer…

BANG!

I spring off the bed just in time as the Weasely brothers plus Potter and Granger and half of Gryffindor rush in. Evidently it is someone's birthday, but I don't bother even trying to see whose. Voices twist around me…

'Oh god, it's Malfoy the Ferret'

'Ron, how do you bear it?'

'Don't you have a slime-infested tunnel to return to?'

__

This is * right *. This is good. Soak up their hatred and use it against them in the future. They will regret saying these things, and you can be the one that teaches the lesson. Isn't this right for you?

More right than rushing heat and shining eyes? More right than warmth and smiling?

__

What do you know about warmth and smiling 'Ferret'?

At least if they're busy ignoring me they probably haven't noticed my crotch area doubling for a sorting hat…

~~***~~

__

Both Draco Malfoy and Ron Weasely have been cursed with nightmares over the past few weeks, but tonight there is a respite.

For Ron, sleep simply refuses to come. All he can see in the dark of the Infirmary room are two shining blue eyes, full of anger and passion, although maybe the passion isn't hatred as he always thought. 

Ron worries that he made a fool of himself. He worries that Draco will think he was joking. He worries that his friends noticed how absentminded he was, or how his bloodless cheeks had flushed deeper than his freckles.

Freckles.

He runs his fingers lightly over his right hand and remembers and feels…what?

At the very least, not sleepy at all.

Across the school Draco Malfoy is buried deep in sleep and dreams. He has thrown the covers half off the bed and his hair is tangled from movement. Beneath his eyelids the pupils can be seen moving swiftly, droplets of sweat decorate his forehead.

He squirms on the sheets and whimpers softly.

Hands clench/unclench.

Then he tenses for a moment - Bites lip - Arched back - ' * Ron * ' 

...before relaxing once more with a gentle smile on his lips that would surprise none more than him. 

Time only will tell which of them will feel worse in the morning…

~~***~~

Next Chapter: **Five: Instincts**: I wonder what happens in a fic with a title like that?


	5. Instincts

****

Chapter Five: Instincts

Warnings: OK, this is the chapter you want to avoid if you are young and innocent. There is m/m interaction (as they call it), and some crude language. If you don't like it, go away and don't upset yourself. I would like to make it explicitly clear that the boys are in Year 13 and hence are easily above the age of consent in Britain.

****

A big Apology: I got the books back the other day, and I realise that I've been referring to Professor Pomfrey as Professor Trewlaney, so deep, deep, apologies and I'll try to do better next time.

I've also been spelling 'Weasley' incorrectly (as someone also emailed to point out) and again I apologise, it's corrected from here on in…

Thanks again to the lovely lovely reviewers…cheers m'dears

~~***~~

* No *, oh no.

__

Look at that mess, all that dirt, remember why it's there? It's pathetic. Malfoys don't lie alone dreaming of what they can't have, they take it. And they never want to take poor impudent youngest sons with no money or reputation.

And with smiling eyes and soft pale hands sugared with freckles. I remember his hand in mine…and his hand on other places, images from the dream. But what seems foremost in my mind are other fantasies - my hands on him, stroking, caressing. Making him moan but never beg. Watching his eyes light up in happiness because of me. 

__

Look at you! At your disgusting bed. What if someone else saw this? Look what he's reduced you to! People like him can't have power over you. Hate him, hate him.

Hate is obsession and need. Having it matter terribly where someone is, what they are doing, what they think of you.

Sounds a lot like something else…

~~***~~

I walk slowly to the Infirmary. This is the last visit, he is out tomorrow. One visit too many…

Who am I kidding? This whole thing has been one event too many…

It would be better if this had never happened.

I report to Pomfrey, who frowns as usual. She'll be glad to see the end of my visits; she doesn't trust me around her patients. With reason, I suppose, given the number of times Potter, Weasley and I have turned up here with the various wounds of our fights.

The door to the room is ajar. I had forgotten the trepidation I used to feel opening it, but now the feeling is back and horribly multiplied.

As I reach out to open it I feel resolved.

__

Just laugh at him. Taunt him. Blackmail him even. Anything to push him far, far away and never let him near again. Make him hate you, it's the only way it can work He'll hate you in time anyway, you know, so be in control instead. Force him. Be a Malfoy. Just * remember * to…

'Ron!'

He turns in surprise and almost falls over. I was shocked to see that he had got out of the bed and is now trying to walk around the room, clinging to the furniture but otherwise doing well. He smiles, but he's wobbling…

I run over and steady him. Then I realise I can feel his warm skin through the pyjamas and I quickly help him to the bed where he can rest. He grips my arms in response surprisingly strongly - a thought flickers through my head, I wonder if he actually meant to fall?

Do I care? Well, it doesn't make me angry…

He collapses onto the bed and pulls me down to sit next to him. There is a silence, as we stupidly smile at each other, without noticing that our hands have never let go each other's arms.

__

This has to stop; this has to stop…

I've forgotten everything, why I didn't want this, why I felt so scared, why I'm here even…It all narrows to him, but then, didn't it always?

'Clumsy'

The word leaves my mouth by some in-built response, but it isn't vicious. My gaze doesn't leave his and I'm still smiling - this is some kind of record for me.

He seems to understand

'Cruel bastard' he half-whispers back, almost tenderly

'Pauper'

'Snob'

'Malfoy'

'Weasley'

I'll never be able to insult people with those words again…

With each word we are closer, nearer. The words are as they always have been, and somehow the rest seems almost usual too. Perhaps this was what those words always meant, underneath.

He runs one hand up my back and gently holds my neck, rubbing his thumb over my chin. I shiver in response and he grins and he moves his mouth to mine

'You called me * Ron * a minute ago, Bitch!'

And with that final insult he presses his lips to mine and moves into my arms. I hug them around him and kiss him back, and I think that this is a * much * better way of resolving tension than plotting to maim each other.

I didn't expect him to be this confident. But then I didn't expect any of this…

We're more similar than we seem, he and I. Steeped in family, with clear precedents to live up to. We're tacticians, thinkers. I've played enough chess with him over the last two weeks to make me respect his strategies almost as much as my own. 

We're worthy opponents indeed, but now we're both aiming for the same goal, and that feels * so *….

'Hey, you want to pay attention here?'

'Mmmfff'

I can't answer because he decides to follow his question with a hand movement better than I even dreamt about. And before I know it our clothes have disappeared, he's gasped out a silencing and locking charm for the door, and the entire world consists of the two of us.

I can't even tell where one of us ends and the other begins…

'God, Ron, where did…mmm, there... you learn how to do…mmff… * that *?'

'Oh, I think about it - a lot'

And hot as that image is, I can't really process it because him talking makes his mouth vibrate, and where his mouth is right now that has the effect of rendering me speechless.

We tangle and stroke and whisper to each other, and melt and shiver and kiss and kiss. And it doesn't take me long to realise I can make him unintelligible as well….

Afterwards, he pulls the covers over us and wraps his arms around me, and I discover that my lesser height means I fit just right to spoon nicely onto his lap and soak in his heat, and as I drift to sleep I can feel him softly butterfly kissing my neck.

And I feel a sense of quiet satisfaction that I'm quite clear on the location of * all * his freckles…

~~***~~

Warmth.

Smiling.

Content.

* Ron * 

__

Wake up, wake up Draco Malfoy, this is all very very wrong.

Happy.

__

No, this is weakness, this is foolishness. You've been a fool, and an idiot, letting him touch you that way. Doing * that * to him, you wanton little shit, debasing yourself and all for his pleasure.

Yes, I remember that. I was nervous, afraid I was doing it all wrong, but he seemed more than satisfied, and afterwards he kissed me like I never imagined. Urgently, passionately....lovingly.

__

Because you lowered yourself to the level of a _ whore _. Malfoys don't give pleasure, they take it. Every time he sees you, he'll remember that you did that, and be sure he'll tell his friends. Imagine them all - Potter and Granger and all the Gryffindor boys - laughing at you, the whole school looking at you and whispering your new nickname.

'Draco Malfoy, cocksucker'

He wouldn't do that

__

He hates you. You hate him. Alter that and it all goes, he can't be on * your * level…

No, he can't. 

__

That's right…

Because if he were 'on my level' everyone would hate him too. I can't continue this precisely because I don't want that to happen to him, I don't hate him.

I don't hate him at all.

__

That's right, Malfoy. Delude yourself into thinking you're acting in his interests. Screw him over and hurt him and tell him it's for his own good. That's the way you treat these people. Well, I say 'people'…

No more thoughts. I have to act.

~~***~~

I can barely force myself to move from his arms, I keep thinking that another minute won't hurt, then another, then another.

But then he mutters something in his sleep, and that makes me scared that he will really wake up soon, and if he does that I'm trapped. I can't face him, not after…not after how he made me feel…

I slip out from under the covers and grab my clothes, sliding into them quickly. My skin has the horrible feeling of waking up unwashed, and my mouth tastes foul inside, but I know that the disgust I feel for myself won't be washed down the bathroom shower plughole…

I unhex the door and open it as silently as possible. I cannot resist the temptation to turn back and look at him one more time. He lies still; red hair severely messed up and with a mark on his neck I hadn't noticed until now. I guess that was me then… 

I find I can no longer look, and make my way as quickly as possible to the Slytherin tower. 

__

You belong there, with the reptiles.

~~***~~

__

Of the next weeks little can be said. They are the Christmas holidays, and thus a time for celebration and those who do not feel in the mood for such gaiety tend to either force it or be overlooked. 

Certainly Harry and Hermione attributed Ron's solemnity to recuperation from his illness. When they noticed him sitting apart or silent, they exclaimed how much they disliked Malfoy, and how glad they were that he went home for Christmas.

Ron would only grunt and change the subject. Only once, in response to a question about how it had been spending those hours with Malfoy, he answered

'I didn't think he wanted to go home very much - maybe I was wrong.'

'Well,' said Harry 'What would keep him here after all?'

Ron shrugged lightly and dug into his pudding, but a careful observer might have seen that though he cut it and moved it around his plate a great deal, he ate almost none. 

Once he wandered to the Infirmary but was not allowed into his old room as it now held a flu case that was very contagious.

He knew that there was nothing either to worry about or hope for. Nothing had been said, or not been said. The slate was blank.

And yet… and yet he was often caught by fits of despair, and sometimes of joy, when he looked across at the almost empty Slytherin table and considered it filling with faces in the next week…

As usual, Draco Malfoy told no one about his visit home. His family, rich as it was, was generally assumed to have the best Christmas of anyone, but he never talked about it much.

When he arrived at the station those on the train with him thought he looked tired, but they did not like to point it out. There was a thin look about him, and kind of desperation they had never seen before. 

They also noticed that he became more unsettled as they neared Hogwarts, but by the time the train pulled in he seemed back to usual.

In fact, when he began making loud remarks about the general appearance of some third-year Gryffindors, they felt reassured that the old Draco was back on track…

… and they hoped fervently that the Potter gang would be the first to know it…

~~***~~

I walk into the Great Hall. It is lit up in a subdued manner for the beginning of term, but nonetheless it feels good to back here, in the happiness and light.

I can crush that feeling in two ways; either by thinking of something better, or by simply ruining it for everyone…

Choosing the latter is usually easier…

During the meal I keep my eyes on my food, staring straight at my pasta as though I can see through the table to my shaking knees. I have to relax at mealtimes again now, remember that I'm not at home.

As we all rise at the end and mill through the Hall, I slip away quickly. I * don't * want to do this.

I have to.

Sooner or later, I have to face him. To make him truly and utterly hate me. 

If I allow myself to see the looks he's given me since I arrived, the way he tried to accidentally run into me at the end of the meal…then I'll never manage it…

I * have * to… the next time I see him…

~~***~~


	6. Memories

****

Chapter Six: Memories

Notes: Sorry that this has taken so long, but I wanted to get it right.

This is the last chapter (sniff), and I've had a great time doing this series so I'm sad to finish. I'll definitely write some more in this pairing eventually.

For now, though, hope y'all enjoy, and thanks to the fantastic reviewers.

There is now a piece of fanart for this fic (!!!!) by the wonderful Rabby. It should be found at:

http://www.geocities.com/orange_tii/ron.html

It's really fantastic, so go check it out!

NOTE: 1st Feb 03: There is now **another** piece of fanart (hee hee! Yay!) by the equally wonderful greenlizard. This can be found with her other amazing works at:

http://www.green-lizard.deviantart.com

~~***~~

The first time I allow myself to see him is in potions, I can't help it - his hair keeps registering in my peripheral vision. Our first potions lesson together since the…event. The class is strongly aware of that. I notice Potter is quite openly watching their cauldron and mine, and glancing up whenever I move.

Veiled and not so veiled glances accompany dark mutterings. Snape seems totally unaware, which must mean he is deliberately ignoring it, but it makes me wonder if this is something he is used too, something, maybe, that he has experienced himself?

The room is literally seething with hostility and suspicion, the air dark with anger. I don't know if they expect me to leap at Ron and start forcing cyanide into him, but I doubt they'd be surprised.

__

Not 'Ron' - Weasley. Or Weasel.

For once I am tending the potion diligently, waiting for the end of the lesson. I am not so stupid as to make my first insult in a room full of people out for my blood.

It's funny, really. How my feelings now compare to those I had last time I stood here - overly aware of him, hoping he would see me, hoping he wouldn't. For so much to have changed and yet so little! The Draco I used to be! How I wish I could recapture that…innocence, I suppose. That feeling that I was totally right in my actions, that freedom from responsibility. 

Or at any rate to simply be aware of his every movement, not * react * to it as well. 

The muttering and whispering grows, and when I go the front bench to collect ingredients almost half the class freezes and watches me with eagle eyes. I take the samphire back to my desk and start to chop it neatly, pleased with my own feeling of anger and hatred welling up against them. All of them, even Weasley must be in on this - this may be easier than I thought…

__

And that is a * good * thing, Draco.

A movement in front of me makes me look up and realise that a person is standing by my desk.

It's him.

I can see his eyes are tired, but they sparkle at me in shared confidence, and I know what he can see when looks at me that way. How he sees me. Between us there almost seems to be a picture in the air, a photograph of an embrace carried between our meeting eyes.

I feel my face - and other parts - heat and burn.

He smiles at me slightly and holds out a measuring cup.

'Could I please borrow some of that? There isn't much to go around.'

There is more than enough samphire. He has come over here to make a point. 

He's defending me.

By standing here he's telling them that he doesn't distrust me, in front of all his friends he's stating that he doesn't believe I'd hurt him. 

So I'd better prove him wrong…

I stare straight into his kind eyes, straight at the wonderful person who's just given me more care than I got all the Christmas holidays of my life put together, and I speak…

'You may be used to saying that in your slum of a house, Weasley, but try and remember I'm not a member of that bunch of unsuccessful genetic mutations you call a family. Maybe your Father can buy you a memory charm - oh no! Wait, he can't, can he?'

The poisonous words burn me as they leave my mouth, but my face is unmoved as ice

He blinks. For one second.

His blush rises dark deep red in his cheeks.

He glares at me. Hurt, anger - rage even - skit across his face. But his eyes are wide with disbelief and…blankness…

//blank eyes staring at me, staring straight at me//

__

So far, so good. We're back as we were, back to the old routine

But something changes.

He doesn't answer back or even try and attack me, just grits his teeth and walks to the front desk to get samphire there.

I don't understand why until I see him angrily scrubbing the back of his fist over his eyes…

The Gryffindors move from shocked silence to yells and outbursts that even Snape can't quieten for a while. Potter has to be forcibly restrained from attacking me. They say truly horrible things, and threaten me with everything they can think of.

All those insults. * Those * insults. The ones that have visited me all winter in heated half-formed dreams and clawings at the bed-sheets for something I can't reach.

I can't see the raging class. Only that picture of his face collapsing from hope and kindness to anger and hurt. Collapsing as surely as if I'd physically struck a blow. 

He'll learn, now, to hate me and leave me alone. That is all I ask of Ron.

__

* Weasley *.

Oh shut the fuck up.

~~***~~

I always thought that the worst sensation was feeling that your enemies might beat you. The awful fear that they have one-up on you and that you don't have a counter-plan.

I was wrong. The worst is when you are ahead of them by all your own standards, and it doesn't feel good, it feels like you are the lowest bastard imaginable, and your insides hurt, your head aches and the voices in your mind never let you rest.

Did my Father * ever * have a conscience, or did he find a way to ignore this feeling?

The worst is that I actually know that this is right. This is how it has to be, any other course of action would only lead to worse heartache for all concerned.

But I have no one to tell that to. No one at all. I have absolutely no one but my demons and my memories.

And this is how I'm fixing it to stay.

I see him for several lessons a week, one way or another. I have no idea what they say behind my back but I do know that Potter and Granger are simply studiously ignoring me. Ron sometimes glances my way when he thinks I'm not looking, but his expression is unreadable.

I didn't realise until now how much I looked forward to seeing him every day when he was in the Infirmary. How much I centred my day around his pleasant conversation. How much time I must have spent quietly thinking about him. I never noticed how my feelings for him were developing, but now I feel like an idiot not to have realised.

When I bump into them in the hallways, I say the crudest, nastiest things I can think of about mudbloods, paupers and orphans. I think I actually shock Crabbe and Goyle now, and even the worst of the Slytherins are starting to avoid me. 

I don't care. Everything's foul and horrible and sooner we all realise it and get on with it the better. Soon Ron will get used to it too, and go back to insulting me as he always has. He will hate me deeply, and his friends will love him for it. 

~~***~~

In the January evenings most students choose to go to bed early, leaving the last of the fire and curling into the warm haven of the eiderdowns. Therefore Ron Weasley knows as he slips downstairs that he will have the common room to himself.

He has no need to cry. That he has already done, and as little as possible. Draco has had enough from him without that - no, the time in the lesson was a special case. To have the one he was helping turn around and spit in his face…it would have shocked anyone.

Draco certainly seemed to have turned around the second 1800 and end up back where he started, trying to be the most vicious and cruel person imaginable. Ron still shudders at some of the names Draco has called him.

But the key word here was 'trying'. Ron frowns and gets out of the armchair he'd sunk into.

Ron knows Draco Malfoy the bastard. Ron has had to cope with that person for almost all his school life. This wasn't him. This was someone trying very hard to be a bastard - someone who had obviously thought about what he was going to say, someone who had given up all semblance of 'logical' opinion simply to insult and wound as much as possible. Someone who was living the cliché and becoming a parody of themselves.

And once Ron had stopped simply reacting and starting thinking about it all he'd realised that. 

Ron Weasley moves to the window and shivers in the chill air. There could, of course, be any number of reasons for Draco behaving this way, and he would be stupid to imagine the leopard could change its spots…

There had been no change, only a brief period of self-delusion that Draco had exploited thoroughly.

He clasps his arms around himself to try and exclude the cold, and the horrible sensation of vulnerability he always feels when he thinks about Draco, the awful feeling when someone has seen you do something embarrassing, except amplified ten thousand times because Draco has seen him at his most vulnerable and open and…………… he will* not *think of that. 

But if Draco was just using him, why did he do _ that _? And why hasn't he put around some story about it already in case Ron tells the truth?

About them, about what they did, what Draco did…

And like every time he remembers he feels the warmth again - the body heat most graphically, but also the way he felt about Draco just * then *. The wonderful warm feeling he tried to communicate afterwards as he pulled Draco's sticky mouth to his own, and then as he held him close while he slept, only drifting off himself after an hour. 

He knew, somehow, that Draco needed very badly to be held.

And even now, when he sees Draco pouring out poison from his lips to him and his friends, he still knows that. 

So why……?

The temptation to just give up is strong, but something in him isn't satisfied. Draco Malfoy is in under his skin, has been - he realises - for a lot longer than he thought. 

Ron sits down with his head in his hands and sighs. Looks like he's going give another night's sleep over to Draco…

~~***~~

__

If hating yourself wears off in time, it's a very, very long time.

I feel like a chrysalis after the butterfly has flown, an empty shell holding to the shape of the worm. I'm haunted by nightmares so sweet I can't bear to wake up and in the day I try and work it off by being as cruel as possible.

It's getting easier, now. I feel so angry and cold inside that it's hardly difficult to hurt and injure others. I know the third years take special precautions to avoid meeting me, and that I've reduced Neville to tears on six separate occasions. And all this knowledge does is make me colder and meaner inside until I feel like I've been shot full of ice.

But the venom comes more and more naturally.

I file into the Herbology lesson with the others already planning what useful remarks I can throw at people - Seamus' haircut springs to mind, he honestly does look like something fungal just decided to live on his head. They're all wary of me - Potter tries to steer Ron into the furthest corner from me, and usually he agrees, but not today.

Today he takes up a place exactly opposite me and crosses his arms expectantly.

So what? I can deal with that.

Throughout the lesson I let loose a barrage of well-picked insults, but he remains unmoved, only raising an eyebrow occasionally at some of the worst.

His eyes almost laugh at me and I feel the anger rising. I want to hit him, I want to shake him, I feel the heat rush through my face, I feel…

…I feel that same fantastic feeling I always did around him. Only he in this entire school can play me at this and only he could make the horrible cold melt into passion and feeling and *life *…

I breathe quickly and glance up to meet his eyes. His eyes stare back, warm and deep, and I feel an involuntary thrill at how dilated and heavy they are, looking at me…looking at * me *… The air is too warm even for a greenhouse and I cannot seem to find any oxygen in it….

…I can feel the very beginnings of movement as my cheek muscles begin to pull back into a smile…

'Ron! Is he bothering you?'

I slouch back, drop my eyes and try to compose myself.

Shit.

__

That was * way * too close, Malfoy.

Inwardly cursing, I keep on potting whatever herb or vegetable we're learning about today and wish that my hands would stop shaking. In a few minutes the lesson will end, and I can simply go back to avoiding him. Everything will be fine if I just get through these few minutes…

After an interminable time Professor Sprout dismisses us. I make my way swiftly from the greenhouse, but instead of going straight to Slytherin tower I find myself heading for the Quidditch pitch. I want to run the whole way until my lungs burn and my legs collapse and all I can think of is breathing - but I don't, I can't. I can't let anything go now; it's all piled so high inside me that if I give one little bit I'm going to be drowned.

I let myself sit down at the bottom of the Ravenclaw tiers for a moment, and I can't help but rest my head in my hands and wish with all my might that * anything * other revenge scheme had occurred to me that day before that potions lesson. If I'd never given him that potion I could have avoided * all * of this.

But then he never would have looked at me like I was the most desirable thing in the world.

He never would have held me so tenderly.

*Him * Ron Weasley - chess champion, loyal friend, staunch Gryffindor. The one who's hit me and held me and fought and fucked me and called me Draco in a voice I didn't know he had. The one who's driven me mad for six years and seems likely to do so for the rest of my life…

__

…the one who's just appeared by the opposite tier and is coming towards you….

I get up quickly and make to leave, but he breaks into a run and blocks my path.

'Get out of the way, Weasley'

'Fuck you'

He speaks angrily but controls his voice; he is balancing on his feet like a fighter. I move again.

'I have to go'

'Fuck you, Draco, what is your problem? Why the hell are you acting like this?'

'Like what?'

'Like a twat who's small minded enough to get off on petty insults and making people cry. What happened to the guy who visited me all those times?'

'He woke up and stopped pissing around with people beneath him'

'Beneath him? That's good coming from you…'

He stares me straight in the face and half spits the words at me. I almost rush at him, but then collect myself and try to think clearly. We are circling round each other - tensely - like fighters before a showdown, but locked into the movement and each other's gaze.

'Don't talk about…that. It's over now - history.' Not my best line, but I'm under pressure.

'And what gives you the right to decide that? Did it ever occur to you that I might want a reason? That I might deserve to know why you are acting in a way that obviously is hurting you as much as anyone else?'

His tone shifts from violent to soft, so quickly I'm unprepared for it…

'That I might not * want * it to be over?'

Oh god.

'Yeah right' I throw his kindness back to him for what seems like the nth time. 'Welcome to the real world Weasley! You hate me - your friends hate me. Why not go ask some of them now? I'm sure they'll enlighten you as to the established opinion of me'

'My friends hate you with good reason, but give them a good reason not to and they won't - they're decent people you know', he looks down and sighs, 'But that isn't what I asked you, is it?'

He tenacious, I'll give him that. And far more perceptive than I realised.

He looks me straight in the eye and continues.

'I'm not going away, Draco. You can't trick me into thinking that the way you're behaving right now is how you want to be.' He grabs my shoulders '* Why * are you doing this?'

We're nose to nose, and I can feel the heat radiating off him. He's really fired up about this, and his grasp is like iron. I want to kill him and kiss him and all the thoughts in my head have drained away into my crotch. 

'You're shit in bed' I somehow manage to say

'Then why is * this * here?' he grins and pulls me to him, rubbing our hips together. I want to shake with pleasure, but I don't and I keep my arms rigidly by my side. My nails are digging painfully into my hands and I think I've drawn blood. I bite my lip and squeeze shut my eyes in a desperate attempt not to feel anything, not to care, not to want any of this.

He pulls back far too soon, disappointed by my lack of response.

'I'm think I'm falling for you, Draco Malfoy' 

I look up, startled, I didn't expect * that *. He's looking at the ground, obviously a little embarrassed. He glances up, suddenly angry. 

'And you can throw it in my face if you want to. Shit, you've done nothing else, but I felt you deserved to know. And I wanted to let you know that I am quite capable of making my own decisions about relationships and everything else, and that I don't need or want you to protect me.'

So perceptive, so clever. I've done everything I can think of to hurt him, and he's still here, telling me…

Telling me he loves me.

Standing there in the open, where anyone might hear and fixing me with clear, honest eyes and telling me * he * feels how I've known so long I felt for him. That he isn't going to leave, that he's seen the worst I can do and still believes in me.

__

Hurt him, wound him, reject him, embarrass him, laugh at him, scorn him…

'It wouldn't work.' Is what I finally say.

'Why the hell not?'

'Because within two weeks you'd…you'd really see me and you'd hate me' Why the hell am I telling him all this? Fuck, I've completely blown whatever cover I've managed to build.

'Draco, have you heard a word I've said? Look, you've been a total asshole these past few weeks, but I don't care because I know that isn't you. I know you can be different'

He grabs me again and makes me meet his eyes. 

I look at him, at his hopeful face and full lips. I realise that he actually needs this, wants this. That this isn't about helping the poor little rich guy, or the sex, or pride or anything other than the glorious chance of two people finding each other and going through hell or high water to keep hold of that.

I open my mouth. 

'Bitch' I say, clearly and distinctly.

And it is the last intelligible sound I make for the next half-hour.

~~***~~

__

It is the final Quidditch match of the year. Slytherin vs. Gryffindor.

The crowd is wild, and the noise levels almost in need of dampening.

The new Slytherin seeker, who took over from Draco Malfoy to much surprise, is good.

This may be one of the closest fought matches in school history.

But two pupils, at least, will never know this.

They are beneath the awning of the Ravenclaw tier, oblivious to cheers, boos, and the noise of the commentator. 

Flushed and blissful, they seem to have found the best form of inter-house activity.

And it would be entirely accurate to say that, regardless of the outcome of the match, they will be grinning together for the rest of the day.

And quite possibly the rest of their lives.

~~***~~

__

Finis


End file.
